My wife tells me that in the third world babies just pop out after nine months, no trouble
at all. Yet in the west there are often foreseen or unforseen complications associated
with child birth.
I don’t know whether or not the facts support what she says, but I do know that she
became part of the ‘complications statistics’ in the process of giving birth to our son,
George ,more than thirteen years ago.
Everything had been moving along smoothly, until one fateful day, in the hospital, the
doctor came in, brow furrowed and said he advised a Caesarean section.
I felt a ripping sensation in my stomach as if the surgeon had already started cutting me,
instead of my wife.
Not long before the operation the same doctor called me in.
.He looked me up and down carefully and spoke thoughtfully, with one arm of his
spectacles pressed up against his lower lip.
“How would you like to be there at the time of the operation, Mr -?
Your wife has opted for an epidural anaesthetic, so you would be able to converse with
her while we were working”.
“Yes of course doctor, sounds just the ticket” I said with great bravado.
The pit of my stomach felt as though it had fallen right through my pants onto the floor.
“ That’s what I like to hear” he replied, as if it was going to be a stroll through the park.
“ We’ll have special clothes ready for you to wear when you come in”.
On the dreaded day my Mother in Law turned up from Grenada and immediately began
At the hospital I was shown into room where I had to change into light green scrubs. .
Funny how clothes can make the man. In my mind I suddenly became a surgeon
myself, and not a mere swimming pool technician.
On my way down the corridor to the operating theater a young woman approached
“Excuse me doctor, can you please direct me to pediatrics?”.
As it happens I knew where pediatrics was, so I was able to point her in the right
direction without having to disclose my true identity.
There, I knew this surgeon thing wasn’t just in my mind, I even looked like the real
I went with trepidation into the theater. My wife was laid out on the operating table,
top half clothed, bottom half being worked on. There was a barrier half way down
her body so she couldn’t see what was happening.
I sat on a chair positioned so I could see both ends.
There were constant sucking and squelching noises as the operating team industrially
worked. The surgeon even had time to talk to me.
“See these” he said, and poked and prodded some big ,nasty looking red lumps.
“ Fibroids, she really needs to have those out”.
I cringed, ‘please not today doctor’.
“But they’ll have to wait for another day” he continued disappointedly.
I sighed with relief.
I talked to my wife for a few minutes trying to take her mind off of what was going on,
but she was more composed than me.
“ And you see these” he said disbelievingly, “They’re Fallopian tubes, I’ll never know
how they got in this state. How your wife ever became pregnant, is nothing short of a
He pulled up something looking like two strings of pink spaghetti wrapped around into
a ball, similar to a weaver bird’s nest.
At that point my vision started to grey out a bit, so I staggered into the corridor and sat
on a bench.
Almost immediately another young woman, who appeared to be lost came up to me.
“ Excuse me sir, which is the way to X rays”?
“ I’m afraid I don’t know, I’m here because my wife is having a baby” I replied
She gazed at me looking obviously perplexed.
“ Oh I see” she answered, “ I hope it goes well, but it must be nice having a husband
who is a surgeon”.
I was feeling better and returned just as George was being delivered. What an experience.
I came away from the hospital that night, physically a day older, but matured by years.
God had entrusted us with the physical and spiritual development of new life, his child.
A miracle baby, who by normal worldly considerations should not have been born at all, but
whom He had nonetheless determined would be born, and enter the world to fulfil His
“Thank you Lord”
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